


A String of Pearls

by Lasgalendil



Series: It's Been A Long, Long Time [5]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Awesome Peggy Carter, F/M, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, World War II, or action, seriously she'd settle for just watching some action, the Howling Commandos, what does a girl have to do to get some lipstick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:39:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy gets horny, post-serum Steve isn’t helping, and Bucky is a little shit.</p><p>…It was bound to *not* happen sooner or later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A String of Pearls](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/162464) by Glenn Miller. 
  * Inspired by [Between You and the World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5402330) by [MilesHibernus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesHibernus/pseuds/MilesHibernus). 



The worst part about recruitment into the Howling Commandos, Peggy soon learned, wasn’t the physical work. It wasn’t the endless hiking, roughing it in tents, scrounging for food and shelter while dodging mortar shells and rifle fire, wasn’t Barnes’ constant bitching and the jealous glares he sent her way, wasn’t Dugan’s over-exaggerated sexual exploits, Morita’s and Jones’ constant bickering about the respective merits of the 442nd vs. the 92nd, the innumerable times Frenchie’d almost gotten them all blown up by improper dynamite handling, or Falsworth’s lingering stares and unwanted winking.  
  
No. The worst part was that Steve Rogers had always been an adorable, patriotic idiot who made her giggly and whom she longed to take care of…and post-serum Steve Rogers—beg her pardon, Captain Rogers—was a broad-shouldered, lusty god-of-a-man who she wanted to simply throw her down and fuck her.

  
  
[Or she could ravage _him_. When it came to Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter wasn’t picky.]

  
  
…a woman could dream. Even a grubby, muddy-faced woman in combat boots who hadn’t slept in a proper bed for three weeks and couldn't remember the last time she’d bathed.  
  
This wasn’t the time. Wasn’t the place. It wasn’t bloody proper, but then again, neither was she. And it couldn’t hurt to just imagine.

* * *

 

Imagining was a bloody bad idea.

  
Today on the list of things Peggy Carter missed: proper kotex, her favorite heels, bloody nail polish, hot food, and a certain vibrating electrical device she had repeatedly assured her mother was entirely for use on her aching shoulders.

* * *

 

Bathing was a luxury, not a privilege. While Dugan, Morita, Gabe, Monty, Frenchie and even Steve (Barnes was, of course, conspicuously absent from such affairs) got to bathe freely in fresh-flowing water, she made do with a small bucket in her tent. However, while Dugan, Morita, Gabe, Monty, Frenchie and Steve were bathing in the freezing outdoors in ice-cold water, she’d warmed up her water over the fire with her mess kit, near to boiling like a mug of proper tea.

  
  
[Glumly, she added tea to the list.]

  
Oh, but hot water felt good! First her face, her neck, feeling the grime and dirt wash away. She slicked down her arms, under her armpits, scratching at the hair to remove every last ounce of stink. Then under her—  
  
She stopped, hands still lifting her breasts. Sucked in her breath.  
  
_Well fuck,_ Peggy thought. Then: _quite_.

* * *

 

She was (relatively speaking) fresh and clean now. And (sexually speaking) somewhat relieved. Sod it, she decided. Tonight was the night. She was tired of pining like a school girl, frustrated at Steve’s flushing face when her hand brushed his, the way he’d look away if her eyes lingered too long, hot and bothered by the way he’d shut down any teasing or questions about her virtue when Dugan or Falsworth broached the topic.  
  
Steve Rogers was an absolute gentleman. And he deserved to be thanked.  
  
… _properly._

No lipstick or perfume. Not even pearls. And—despite her attempts at washing—her only brassier and girdle were positively stained with God-knows-what bodily fluids after several months of field work. Ah, well. Still, she arranged her hair as neatly as she could given the circumstances and lack of mirror. Gave an extra sniff under each arm to make entirely certain she was clean. This wasn’t what she’d hoped for their first encounter (why the bloody hell hadn’t Steve gotten the hint when she’d gone to an officer’s wife and begged to borrow that bloody dress with matching lipstick and heels?), but they were, after all, in a war zone. Who knew when—and if—they’d ever get another change.  
  
She bit her lips. Pinched her cheeks. Brushed the hair back from her face, and—  
  
…And the moment she opened the flap of her tent, she noticed the light still on in Steve’s.  
  
The voices were low, and silhouettes shrouded, but she recognized the laughter well enough. Steve and Barnes.

  
  
[…now _there_ was a thought. A thought that wasn’t helping her in the slightest.]

  
But as the restless night wore on, the light in Steve’s tent—and the friend inside it—showed no sign of turning out anytime soon.  
  
Bloody hell.  
  
It wasn’t as if she wasn’t already teased—wasn’t as if the whole bloody world hadn’t seen her picture in Steve’s compass. Wasn’t as if it wasn’t something they all believed—ridiculed her about —anyways. In fact, Peggy had to admit, what bothered her wasn’t the constant, bloody teasing so much as the fact that it _still hadn’t happened yet._  
  
Oh, certainly, if it hadn’t been war, Steve was the sort she’d be happy to wait for. The sort of bumbling boy who’d go to his marriage bed a virgin—or close enough to it. It wasn’t as if he didn’t feel the same way—those tights left little (ha!) to the imagination. But still. Peggy felt she could wait a lifetime for Steve to make the first move, and he probably never would.  
  
Bugger it.

* * *

 

“Out.”  
“What do you mean, ‘out’?” Barnes asked, affronted.  
“Out!” She threw Barnes’ blue jacket at his bewildered face.  
Steve just blinked, surprised—bloody terrified, even—to find himself suddenly alone with her.

* * *

 

It was morning when she left the tent, tried to slip away unnoticed before dawn. But the acidic sting of coffee hit her nose, and she knew—just knew—that one of the Commandos would be watching.  
  
Well, nothing for it then. She squared her shoulders. It wasn’t as if she was ashamed—wasn’t as if they didn’t tease her already. “Morning,” Peggy said, striding across the clearing with her head held high. Her appearance was met with wild applause, cheers, and no few ‘fucking finally’s from her gathered comrades.

  
_Bugger it_ , Peggy thought. She undid the flap to her own tent, unbothered.  
“Whazgoinon—?” Barnes bolted upright.  
“Out.”

* * *

 

He cornered her later. “Well?”  
“Well what?”  
“Well how’d you two make out?”  
“Rather poorly, I’m afraid.”  
“He’s that bad, huh?” Barnes chuckled. “It’s just inexperience.”  
“Oh, I’d hardly know.”  
“What, like _you’re_ a virgin or something?” Barnes sneered.  
“No, I mean he’s still that inexperienced.”  
  
“Wait—what do you mean ‘still?’”  
“Sergeant Barnes, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, let alone ask the lady in question.”  
“Then it’s a damned good thing I’m such a depraved sodomite,” he grinned eagerly. “Now spill.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Operation Fuck Steve Rogers ended disastrously. Peggy Carter investigates.

“Some light kissing.”  
“How light?”  
“Very.”  
Barnes looked thoughtful.  
“Sergeant, I am grateful—deeply humbled, even—by your admission and trust in me, and well aware of the friendship you have with Steve. However, well. What I mean ask—how, exactly, intimate was the nature of this friendship?”  
Silence. “You’re asking if I fucked him.”  
“Quite.”  
“No.”  
“No?”  
“No.”  
“…anything else?”  
“Else?”  
“Oh, I don’t know. What is the phrase? ‘Messing around’?”  
The flush on his cheeks was undeniable.  
“…Ah.”  
“It was _one time_ , Carter. For the love of God! I got fucking drunk and _kissed_ him. We didn’t—we never—”  
“And—?”  
“And _what?_ ”  
“And how did Steve—Captain Rogers—respond to this kissing?”  
“He laughed his scrawny ass off,” Barnes fumed. “Happy?”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The 442nd Regimental Combat Team was composed of mostly Japanese-American soldiers, and remains the most decorated unit in American military history.  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/442nd_Infantry_Regiment_%28United_States%29
> 
>  
> 
> The 92nd Infantry Division was a segrated or ‘colored’ division composed entirely of black soldiers. Despite an impressive service history, medals of honor we not rewarded to its members until 1997. Fuck racism.  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/92nd_Infantry_Division_%28United_States%29#World_War_II


End file.
